23rd.—The circumstance that Caroline told us lately, of the children on the desert island, in the Mississippi, naturally led to some conversation about that prodigious river, and the countries through which it flows.
We looked at its course to-day, in my uncle’s large maps of North America. He shewed us an account of it in Morse’s Geography, and he made us observe, that taking in all its windings, it is upwards of a thousand leagues in length; that it passes over twenty degrees of latitude; and, after joining with the Missouri, and receiving a multitude of smaller streams, though many of them are navigable for hundreds of miles, it pours its united waters into the Gulf of Mexico.
It is evident, he says, that the country through which it runs, was formerly inhabited by a more intelligent race than the natives now appear to be; for large mounds of earth are frequently met with near the banks of the river, within which are found the remains of pottery and other articles of a superior kind to those now in use amongst the Indians, who are in a very low state of civilization, and but thinly spread over that immense valley.
The Mississippi rises, as he shewed us, in a region of lakes and swamps, which are scattered over a table-land extending from that great ridge called the Rocky Mountains, nearly to Lake Superior, between the 48th and 49th parallel of latitude. In the first division of its course, it passes slowly and smoothly through savannahs, or low plains, covered with wild rice, rushes, and other aquatic plants, the rank growth of which is so great, that travellers say, that as they sat in their canoes, the adjoining forests were completely hid from their view by the lofty fields of waving grass.
In the second division, begins the granite country, with forests of elm, oak, and other lofty trees. Then come the dry prairies, which are the great resort of the buffalo and deer; and in which sycamore and black walnut begin to appear.
In the third division, which extends above 800 miles, the river increases vastly in breadth; flows through lime-stone rocks, and receives several tributary rivers, by some of which, boats may communicate, with short interruptions, between the Gulfs of St. Lawrence and Mexico.
Lastly begins the extensive tract of land, known by the name of the Great Swamp, or, as it is sometimes called, the Dismal Swamp.—Scarcely a tree or bush is to be seen for 300 miles, except the deciduous cypress, which gives a peculiar and gloomy aspect to this unhealthy region; and, to add to its horrors, it is subject to frequent earthquakes. Lower down, the banks of the river consist of clay, sand, and gravel; almost every flood undermines some parts of them, which fall in, and carry away whole fields and plantations into the stream.—From a place called Baton Rouge, which is about 140 miles above New Orleans, to the sea, they are scarcely elevated above the level of the river, and would be overflowed during the floods, but for artificial embankments, called levées, by which the long narrow line of plantations is defended. All beyond these embankments, is one vast level, swampy surface, covered with reeds and rushes, and totally destitute of trees. The inundations are said to have sometimes risen to the height of fifty or sixty feet.
The breaking down of a levée, with the tremendous rush of such a body of water, brings certain destruction on the neighbouring plantations. At those times, the whole surface beyond the sloping banks appears, for thousands of square miles, as one vast ocean; and only four or five years since, upwards of three hundred plantations were overwhelmed with water, and their crops totally destroyed. Very strict regulations have, therefore, been established for the prevention of this misfortune.
In these dreary plains a pretty little species of marmot is found; it is called the “Prairie-dog,” from a supposed resemblance of its cry to the hurried barking of a dog. The habits of this animal are so social, that they live together in burrows which are called “Prairie-dog villages,” and which sometimes spread to the extent of many miles; the entrance of each burrow is through a small mound of earth, of a foot or eighteen inches high, on the summit of which the little animals sit and bark, and flourish their tails; but they plunge in, on the least appearance of danger. In winter, they become torpid, having first securely closed up the entrance of their burrows, and made a nest of fine dry grass with a small opening just large enough to admit a finger, and so compact, that it might be rolled along the floor without injury. The burrowing owl is said to inhabit these plains also, dwelling in burrows of the same description as those of the prairie-dog.
24th.—This day, our good friend, Mrs. P. left us—I am very sorry to lose her; and, so indeed, is every person in the house.